For the Falling
by Mirvena
Summary: It's all in a day's work for Gordon. Next in my PoV series; AU-ish. T-rated; themes are not suitable for younger children.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the regulars and appreciate the loan.

Gordon's story; some will consider it OoCy – so don't go there if you can't cope with my AU.

Rating is a firm T. Not suitable for younger kids.

…

**For the falling.**

Desert sand, rippling like the waves of the sea.

There should be some resemblance, but there isn't. The smell is different, it's grit in the eyes, not salt spray, and the sea doesn't reflect a hundred degrees of heat right back at you.

Elemental it may be, but it sure ain't _my_ element. But looks like I'm stuck here for a while, so might as well make the best of it.

Not even here on a rescue…well, not yet; who knows what's round the corner? Just riding shotgun on emergency aid and medical supplies…fifteen border raids last month, and the government worse than useless; people starving and dying needlessly while the hired guns and the fat cats in the big city line their pockets with other people's misery.

Well not _this_ time.

We talked about this long and hard. It isn't our usual line of work. We're supposed to be life-savers, not mercenaries. But, bottom line, people are dying out here and the people who spend their lives trying to help are getting their asses busted for no good reason. We can't just stand by.

Not our own Aid people, but we're not fussy. They call for help, they get it, for now at least, until there's a 'genuine' call-out, till we get back in our air-conditioned machines and head off to the acute emergency, then to the solace of an island paradise leaving the real heroes to do the chronic rescuing, day in, day out, fighting the stinking poverty till the day the world ends.

We loaded up Two in addition to the usual transport so their people can get in and out in one go, and we helped with the unloading; might as well do something useful while we sit here waiting for something to happen or not to happen. It's grueling in the heat but the regular crew did it without complaining, under the watchful auspices of the female doctor who seems to be _persona numera una_ around this tiny way station. The big transport's taken off now. One more stop further south and it's done for the month, so it's just the Aid people now; the doctor and her three sidekicks, the young guy, the woman, and the kid - plus the patients. _Patients_. Some of them have walked eighty miles across the dunes and dustbowls to get here.

Wander into the office, pass the paperwork to the young guy who smiles at me. A flash of brilliant white teeth. The accent sounds local. Educated, nice manners. Despite the hardships they're a people with a sense of humor and a generosity of spirit.

_Wondering. Where does a guy get a little action around here? _

Watching as he bends over the ancient photocopier; nice _ass_. He swings around suddenly; eyes _up_, Tracy.

"Here you go," he says brightly and I shoot him the signals but no flicker of anything beyond friendliness in return.

Non-starter. "Thanks, man." He nods in acknowledgment, heads off to one of those dingy back rooms – what do they _do_ in there?

Watch after him wistfully, turn to see the lady doctor in the doorway, curious Mona Lisa half-smile on her face.

"Come on in – I've got five minutes."

It's been weeks since I've seen any action of this sort. What can we do in five minutes?

Hell, stop wondering! I can work fast if I have to.

She gestures to the couch. "Hop on there. Take your shirt off."

"Sure thing, honey." Whoa. Guess she likes to be in charge. It's been a while since I've gone down this route. Not truly my scene.

"What's your problem?" she demands.

"Problem? What? I mean…"

She rolls her eyes impatiently. "Your shoulder – or is it your back? I can see you're in pain."

Whoops.

But she's not wrong; it's been giving me jip for hours now. Too much heavy lifting. Perch on her couch, ease off my shirt as she skirts round behind me.

Still, there's hope, I guess.

Follow her in the mirror - not bad-looking, slim, boyish, my type, a little on the old side, sure – twenty-seven, twenty-eight? I prefer 'em younger than me, younger the better – s'long as they're legal, I'm not _that_ stupid - but hey, running out of options here. She prods my shoulder cautiously, the way doctors do, as if it's going to blurt out its secrets under her touch; I don't think it achieves anything, but I guess they think it makes them look like they know what they're doing.

"What did you do to it?" she asks incuriously. Get that English accent.

"Speedboat accident. There are three pins in there." They look crazy on the X-rays, like someone just looked for the softest spots they could find and hammered them in any which way.

She fiddles around some more. "I don't think any of them have shifted. But the muscles are in spasm. You could do with regular physio."

"You offering me a massage?"

"In your dreams."

It's repartee. She knows. I know. Heads for a tray of syringes. Oh, _man_. I hate freaking injections. Even now.

Watch as the brightness of the light plays with her hair; the mousy-brown replaced by yellows and greens and purples.

"It'll take the edge off, but you should get it checked out properly. There's a lot of scar tissue. It must have been some accident."

"It was pretty impressive," I swing around, best grin. "There are lots of things about me that are impressive when you get to know me." _Real_ impressive. I consider asset-stripping. Do they arrest you for that over here? Feels like the rules should be different. Hell, this is not, by any stretch of imagination, a _civilized_ country.

"And why would I want to do that?" she murmurs sweetly. But she isn't sweet, she's all standards and playing by the book; hard as nails, this one.

"Aw, honey, don't be like that. Surely you could stand a change of conversation once in a while? Is there some place around here we can get coffee?"

Shakes her head. "I can get coffee. No 'we' about it."

One last try. She must be begging for it, too, surely? Or maybe she's got something going with nice-ass. "Why not 'we'? I'm a cool guy when you get to know me."

"You're a little young, soldier. And it didn't escape my notice that five minutes ago you were eying up my colleague exactly the same way you're looking at me now. Do you really think you're _that_ cool?"

Fair cop.

_Ow-eech!_

Deep-seated burning sensation as she sticks in the needle, none too gently; give me a nurse any day of the week; no-one teaches doctors how to do this properly and they're all too freaking proud to ask. Tears to the eyes job; hard to look seductive when you've got a veritable _pickaxe_ in your back and you're weeping like a baby, screw it, jeez, that hurts!

She's glancing out of the window, impervious to the near-death experience she's engendered. "I like your boss, though." She hesitates, some of the hardness evaporating. She isn't used to this. "Married?"

"Scott?" I'm startled.

She glances back sharply. "He said his name was Mike."

"Mi…?"

_Shit! _Not thinking through the red haze. The rest of us do the sensible thing; why does he have to make it so freaking complicated – why would you abandon a name only to adopt it again in public, just to confuse the hell out of everyone, Scott, _man_?

"Oh, _that_ boss. Mike – yes, good old Michael. Married? – no. No wife, no kids. No mad fiancée locked in the attic. Well not as far as I know. Big attic. Definitely eligible. Nice guy. You two should…get coffee." Gabbling, Tracy.

She looks at me and then at the syringe as though she thinks she might have shot me full of idiot-juice instead of novocaine.

She likes him? Yeah, I can see it might work. She's cute in a self-important, self-righteous, serious sort of way. He'd hate to be loosened up, and face it, she may actually be more uptight than he is. I grab my shirt, head out.

"I'll have a word with him if you like…you know…thanks. For the injection, I mean." Politeness never hurt.

Pain easing now as the shot kicks in, just that strange fiery numbness. The relief takes an almost physical form, a comfortable furry little Sasquatch round my shoulders, as my back and neck begin to ease up too; wiggle my shoulders and fingers, crick my neck a little, cross to where Virgil's loading up.

He glances at me, frowning. "You okay?"

Sure, if being stuck like the proverbial pig counts.

"Fine. Here's the paperwork."

He stares at me a moment longer, all psychic and older brotherly on me.

"My shoulder seized, is all. Doc gave me something for it."

"You sure?"

You better believe it. "It'll be fine. Finished unloading?"

"All done. We're heading down to the next station in a few minutes. You sure you'll be okay here?"

I nod, but truth? I feel uneasy, like we're being watched. Place gives me the creeps. Too open, too dry. You'd think I'd be used to open spaces, given all the years in Kansas. Maybe I've just gotten too used to the island.

Virgil waves the paperwork over his head, a signal to BB. Give him an elbow as Scott approaches, raise my voice. "You might not want to be in such a hurry here, big fella. Maybe I should come with you to the next station and leave Scott here instead."

He glances at me in surprise.

"'pparently the lady doc thinks BB's kinda hot."

Virgil raises an eyebrow dubiously, doesn't look round at Scott. "She obviously doesn't get out much."

"Neither does he."

"Happened once before. I know it did. Some girl…somewhere…" clicks his fingers "…what was her name? Thought he was cute." His face falls comically. "Ah, no, I remember now; I'm mixing him up with John again."

Scott catches us up, gives us a pitying smile. "Stevie. Her name's Stevie."

"You got her name?" Impressive. For Scott, this is fast work.

"She went to school in Bristol, England. Has a brother, a married sister, two nieces and a little nephew. Graduated top of her class and could have had her pick of jobs but chose to come out here."

_Real_ fast. Can't for the life of me figure whether the tone of voice denotes his deep admiration of her or just a general smugness at the level of detail he's able to divulge. Decide to push it. "Ah, but did you get her cell number?"

"No reception out here."

Aha! He _is_ trying, then. This has to count as some sort of progress. Yeah – she really _might_ be his type. "She sure is a tough cookie," I continue complainingly. "I tried to get her to go for coffee."

Virgil looks around. "I hear there's a Starbucks round here somewhere." He licks a finger, holds it up, turns. "Yeah – right over that sand-dune. Keep going straight, what, about a thousand miles, you can't miss it."

"I even got my shirt off," I continue, unabashed. "I thought – you know – quick flash of the pecs might impress her. She scarcely blinked. Nope – she has eyes only for BB."

Ha! I succeed in forcing a blush from Scott now. But he plays along. "Well, I guess I can't help the effect I have on 'em…"

Virgil snorts. "Must be your cologne." He winks at me. "What's it called? _Hint of Desperation_?"

"Take her out," I suggest suddenly.

"What?" The incredulity is actually quite funny.

"Take her out," I repeat quickly. "Boy likes girl, girl likes boy, it's what happens. They date, they eat a little face, they make babies…"

"How do they do that, Gordon?" Virgil asks innocently.

"I've got a book that shows you. Be good and I'll let you eyeball it later."

"If it's the one about fruit-bats, I've read it. Lot of stuff about chromosomes I didn't understand."

"How about it, BB?"

Scott starts to laugh. "You want me to read about fruit-bats?"

"Ask her out, idiot."

"And just where am I supposed to take her?"

"Starbucks. A thousand miles that-a-way. I have it on good authority. It'll take five minutes in One."

He stops, an odd look on his face. "Let's see if I've got this straight. You think I should take Thunderbird One – complete with passenger who's never flown in a jump-jet before - to Cairo - to get a cup of coffee?"

The funniest thing is that I think he's actually considering it seriously.

"Sure," I encourage him.

He breaks off, shaking his head and says mildly "Shall we maybe just get back to work instead?"

"Hell, this is so much more fun."

"Then let me rephrase it." His expression and tone change abruptly. "_Get back to work_!"

"Jeez!" I pretend to be hurt. "What a hard-ass."

Into Two, load up for the duration.

I retrieve my special case. You can never be too careful.

When I emerge, the lady doc is outside talking to my brothers. Scott has his back to me but immediately raises his voice for my benefit.

"If he gives you any trouble try planting him in sand. But don't forget to water him a couple of times a day."

I slap him less than lightly on the shoulder. "Isn't it time for you two to fly off in your little toy airplanes?"

His expression doesn't change but his tone does. "Will you be okay?"

"Just peachy."

"I'll be five minutes away."

She looks surprised. "I thought you were going all the way down to the southern border."

"That's right, ma'am."

"Just how fast _are_ you in that thing?"

Virgil beats me to it by a whisker. "Just as fast as he is in everything else, ma'am," he says ultra-politely, and ignores the daggers BB shoots at him.

She looks at the big fella, not quite sure whether to laugh, and gets no cues at all. I swear the guy can keep a perfect straight face.

On that note, the two of them do leave, stirring up a couple of minor sandstorms as they go. What's that stuff about butterflies' wings? I guess we can kiss goodbye to what's left of the Antarctic.

Trudge back toward the huts with the lady doc.

This is going to be a heap of fun. What do they do for entertainment?

She nods towards the hospital wing.

"You can bed down in there if you like – we've got a couple of spare cots."

The day just goes on getting better. Wonder if any of the local honchos has anything infectious? Picture what the island will look like after we've all died of Lassa Fever. Mentally go through the list. Yellow fever, typhoid, ty_phus_, rabies, you name it, I've had the shot, but I bet there are a few more little bugs lurking out here that you _can't_ name.

She reads my thoughts. Or my expression maybe. "Are you up to date with all your inoculations?"

"Yes, ma'am. But if it's all the same to you I'd prefer just to hunker down in a corner of your office."

"Suit yourself."

Unpack a few essentials. Toothbrush, lucky rabbit's foot, some essential reading material, carefully disguised inside of something that looks like a technical manual - it's going to be a long night. Literally; we're not all that far from the equator and when night falls here it's like someone just switched off the celestial light switch.

Don't see the woman assistant – on the ward, maybe - but nice-ass is cooking, brings me a bowlful of something that looks indeterminate but smells pretty good, sits down close eyeing me a little warily.

"Good," I mumble with my mouth full, and gesture with my spoon.

Seems to please him; he relaxes and smiles. I wonder if I'm supposed to burp or something. Or is that Arabs?

"What is it?" I ask politely

He looks at me warily.

"You're American, aren't you?"

"Er, yes."

He gestures to my plate. "Then it's chicken."

I look down dubiously. No _way_ is this chicken.

"No, really. What is it?"

"Chicken, _America_. Like Colonel Sanders, yes?" he insists, and grins.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Martin," he proffers.

"Martin?" Not what I was expecting. Don't they speak French or something here?

"And you?"

I hesitate. No harm, I guess. "Gordon," I tell him, and hold out a hand. He takes it. A cool, limp handshake. "How long have you been doing this, Martin?"

"What? Working at the station, you mean?" He shrugs. "Almost ten years now."

Older than he looks. I had him down as my age. But I've noticed that before with people from this part of Africa; the women, too, they look phenomenal right into middle and old age.

"You local?"

"I was born in the next village." He looks down, stirs his stew. "The agency paid for me to go to Switzerland to study. I was chosen out of many who wished to train." There is a note of pride in his voice.

"You a doctor, too?"

"A nurse."

"And a damn good one." Stevie, returned from her rounds. Her voice is warm. "Not to mention a great cook."

He looks a little uncomfortable under the praise. Guess she isn't exactly free with it.

She shovels some of the meal onto her plate and sits down to join us.

"How's the boa?"

"The what?"

"Sand boa. A local delicacy but a bit of an acquired taste."

I look at it and shovel a big chunk of meat into my mouth, staring all the while at Martin who just grins again.

"Real good. Just the three of you running this place?"

"And Esme." She gestures towards the kid. "She helps out with the domestic chores. In times of real crisis they send us extra hands, but most of the time it's just the four of us."

"Doesn't it get lonely out here?"

She shrugs. "There's always custom. Particularly now – we're starting to see traffic from across the border. But I'd rather it was lonely that have the wrong sort of company."

Her voice betrays anxiety. As the war in the neighboring country hots up there have been more than a dozen raids on posts like this in the last month. And the mercenaries have been ruthless, shooting up everyone who tries to stand up to them and quite a lot of those who don't. Soon as a drop is scheduled, they seem to know about it and they're in there like a bunch of hyenas around a carcass, baying for the spoils. The government turns a blind eye. Someone's being paid off. It's why we're here. Stake out enough posts and sooner or later we'll flush them. We've been playing cat and mouse off and on for a few days now. No-one else will help.

After supper, Martin finds a pack of dog-eared playing cards and we trade a few hands of gin. I find myself warming to him. He has a surprisingly evil sense of humor under the polite exterior. I delve into my overnight bag, find some European chocolate, the real deal. Martin shyly accepts a couple of squares, puts them beside him, doesn't eat. I don't know if he's saving it or just too polite to tell me he doesn't care for it.

Doc Stevie does her final rounds and returns, satisfied that all is well enough. She looks on, interested, in spite of herself. I pull up a chair, hoping she'll join us.

She half-shakes her head, then her eye lights on the candy. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Belgian."

She's suddenly surprisingly keen to be dealt in. She digs out some cold beer to add to the festivities. Martin joins her. I decline, tempting though it looks. I need a clear head.

"What are the stakes, gentlemen?" Her smile is a little sharkish. I should see what's coming.

"Cash. Candy if you prefer. Unless you want to switch to strip poker?" I offer hopefully. She declines. I deal her in. We play for cents. The chocolate in her case. She wins hands-down, hand after hand after hand until she's worked her way through the entire bar and has to switch to collecting coins.

At the finish I have to sit back in pure admiration. "Where'd you learn to play like that?"

"I have a very large extended family. Every summer Bank Holiday we used to get together – the women-folk would gather to gossip out in the garden, and the gents would go and play rummy indoors. I got bored with the gossip at a very early age. And with the women-folk."

"Aha! You like to be one of the guys. You see – we're made for each other." This isn't going anywhere, I know, but it's still fun to flirt. A fella has to keep his hand in. "You'd get on just great with my family." Who knows? She might have to. The thing with Scott just _might_ go somewhere. "All boys. Five of us."

She shoots me a pitying look. "You're presumably the youngest."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well I imagine your father would have opted for the scissors if he thought he ran the risk of any more like you."

I shift uncomfortably. "Look, lady, I know we kinda got off on the wrong foot…"

She grins easily, and I realize it's _me_ that's been wrong footed.

"Is she always like this?" I ask Martin. The prospect of her as a future sister-in-law definitely has limited appeal.

He smiles. "You must forgive Stevie. She has to be kind to people all day long. Sometimes it's fun not to be."

I sit back, retrieving my dignity. "As it happens, I have a younger brother."

"Anything like you?"

"Nothing like me. Worse. Much, much worse." I groan, to demonstrate. "You wouldn't _believe_ how much worse."

She grins. "Tell us all about him."

Easily done. I have an infinite fund of Alan stories.

I guess I'm wrong about the lady doc. She's quite capable of letting her hair down once in a while.

We while away the time into the wee small hours, playing cards and exchanging stories. I'm down a dollar forty-five by two a.m. I figure I can stand the loss. It's worth it to watch them relax and have a little fun.

I bet they don't get much chance to unwind.

…


	2. Chapter 2

With thanks to Red H. for reviewing.

Concluding chapter.

…

I'm flying. Not sure why everyone else needs machines when it's so damn simple just to take your feet off of the ground and start that gentle swimming action. A lot of the time I just kinda forget I can do this and it's always a pleasant surprise when I remember how easy it is. I stretch out a little more strongly and float down the rotunda stairs and out of the main entrance to the villa, then pull sharply upwards above the trees and start to gain some height. I can see the island from above. Funny – my fear of heights dissipates totally when I'm doing this. I just know I'm not going to fall. Now if my arm would just stop itching this would be perfect.

Try flipping onto my back. Nice. Staring at the stars, floating upwards. One star in particular is looming larger and larger. The shape is kinda familiar, too. Donut shaped. This ain't no star; I realize I'm approaching Five. Scratch absently at my wrist. _So_ annoying.

Five heaves ever closer into view. I can even see Johnny standing in the window, mouthing something at me. Can't quite figure out what he's saying.

I drift closer. The airlock is in sight now. A little more swimming motion and I'll be there.

It occurs to me that I shouldn't be able to breathe. Maybe that's what John's trying to tell me. But, hell, it's no trouble at all. There's obviously more oxygen up here in space than the boffins are letting on.

My wrist is really annoying me now; it's turning from a tickle to a definite pain.

And I can hear John's voice now, becoming clearer and clearer through the ether. Funny, I didn't think sound travelled in space. Must be something to do with this new atmosphere.

"Gordon, for the love of God, WAKE UP!"

Dammit, apparently I can't fly after all. Now that is a cryin' shame.

Push myself to a sitting position, slowly cognisant of the fact that Johnny is pushing twenty volts through my wrist-watch in order to wake me up. He'd better have a damn good reason for both grounding _and_ electrocuting me. Okay, so it sounds like a contradiction in terms, but, hell, you know what I mean.

"John?"

"About bloody time. You got company, Gordo. They're almost on you."

It occurs to me I'm not in my bed. Hell, I'm, not even comfortable. Finally remember where I am. Fight my way out of the mosquito net and pull on my pants, blinking the last vestiges of sleep out of my eyes.

"Fill me in."

"There's movement to the west, no more than two miles from your position now. A small convoy – three vehicles, coming your way and fast."

"Scott?"

"On his way."

"F.A.B."

I flip open my special case.

The commotion has woken Martin who is regarding me, wide-eyed.

"Are we…"

"Under attack? Yes. Get the others."

He disappears.

Pull out the components of my sniper rifle, start to assemble it, pull out the hand-guns as Martin returns.

"You know how to use one of these?"

He nods, swallowing a little. I toss him a weapon. "Last resort. Keep away from the door and the windows, but if they get through then don't hesitate to use it, not for a split-second. They won't be our people." I glance at Stevie. I can see she's torn, bound by her oath. _Do no harm._ I gesture at the woman and the girl. "They won't kill any of you straight away," I tell her bluntly. It decides her. She pushes the others down underneath the table and takes one of the guns.

I smile. "Have no fear. Cavalry's on its way. Keep back from the wall."

Glassless window is a nice big target and the first place they're going to aim at. I place a couple of tiny charges low down the wall, one on each side, to take out a chunk just large enough to sight through. Indicate to the others to cover their ears. The dust settles. Down flat on my belly, squint through the 'scope; placed the charges just right, and I've got a good view of the lead vehicle as it appears over the dune.

It's a dead cert they're not here for a health check. Trigger finger tightens but I don't squeeze. Not yet.

"John? Update."

"TB1 is right on top of you," he responds promptly. "She's coming in just over Mach One and very low."

Let's see what they make of _her_.

"Cover your ears," I yell back into the room.

Just in the nick of time. The sonic boom is freaking mind-numbing, setting the nerves right on edge, even though I'm expecting it. I don't see her – she's crossed us from left to right before we hear her, but it gets a reaction all right. The convoy slews to an abrupt halt and there is a commotion.

A few moments later and he's swung back, down to a bare hover, and he's on the loud-hailer. Even if none of them speaks English his message is unmistakeable. He tells them to back off in exactly the same no-nonsense tones he'd use on us when we were kicking off as kids.

Apparently these bastards are harder to intimidate than we were.

They have surface-to-air and they launch in front of my very eyes. He veers hastily.

Even though I know that BB knows what he's doing my heart is in my mouth. I risk straightening my arms so that I can see through the side window – the fireworks start up in the distance as Scott releases a bundle of flares. I can't tell what's hit what.

"Thunderbird One to Field Station. Am turning for attack run now."

He doesn't have to take the time to tell me this, but it's his way of letting me know he's okay up there.

"F.A.B." I get my head down and squint along my sights again.

Not a moment too soon. A burst of gunfire rakes along our little cabin. The convoy has started forward again.

My first shot takes out the driver of the lead vehicle. It sputters, and stops, and I take down the unfortunate passenger as he steps from the vehicle, his machine pistol raised. The two in the back seat have the sense to exit from the side away from the hut and take cover. I roll across the floor to the other side of the room. They'll have made my position by now.

I can hear One coming. Scott targets the vehicle that tried to down him. They can see what's coming and most of them spill out in a panic moments before their jeep is hit. One braver but sadly misguided soul stays to ram another missile into the launcher. I don't see what happens to him. But their humvee disintegrates into a million pieces.

It's over, as quickly as it started. The survivors are not going to take on the might of our machines. They leave their dead, but pick up the wounded and pile into the remaining vehicle. Scott hovers, turns One around; I imagine he's contemplating giving chase momentarily, but he's a cool head in battle and he doesn't have any appetite for killing for its own sake. Any temptation to rout them further is summarily dismissed and his jets fire for landing.

Keep my head down a while longer, worrying as Scott exits his plane. There could be snipers out there. "Update again, John, please."

"I've got two hot ones on the ground near the jeep," he replies cautiously. "They're not moving so I'm guessing they're both dead. Two more near the vehicle Scott targeted. No-one else in the vicinity."

"Did you get that, Scott?"

"F.A.B."

"Take care."

"Will do. You just look after your people, little brother."

I glance back into the cabin. Stevie sits up, brushes debris off her clothes, reaches a hand down to a shocked and frightened Esme.

"Okay, honey?"

The doc glares at me for a moment until she realizes I'm addressing the kid.

"She's fine."

"Martin?"

He's sitting, back against the desk, the gun loose in his hand. He doesn't reply.

"Hey, man, it's over," I assure him.

Stevie figures it before I do. She's at his side in a trice. She raises his head, but his eyes are closed.

Her jaw sets tight.

And I close my own eyes at the waste of it all.

…

I've collected my belongings together.

The agency will send Stevie another nurse, someone who probably means as well as the rest of us, but who is unlikely to understand their culture the way one of their own does.

Virj has brought Two back to pick me up. Martin gets a less ostentatious exit, on the back of the dusty donkey cart his villagers have sent for him. They'll bury him at sunset, mourning the one amongst them who took on the developed world at its own game.

Scott and Virgil tie up the loose ends. To everything a time and season. We'll leave quietly and let these people get on with their lives. The women of the village do their mourning in style. But Stevie isn't the crying type. Not in public, anyway. Tough as old boots. The woman I met last night is gone, and the doctor is back; brisk, and business-like and brittle.

"We're pretty much all done out there," Scott tells her. By which he means they've buried the dead.

She nods.

"I don't think they'll be back," he notes reassuringly.

Her head swings to one side. "Listen, Michael…Scott…what the hell _is_ your name anyway?" Her irritation shows. He's saved from answering for now as she launches into a tirade. "It's fine for you to say. What if you made them just mad enough to come back and finish the job? I have a clinic to run here. Some of us can't just leap into a plane and ride off into the sunset." She gestures sharply, and there's a slight break in her voice.

I contemplate telling her that she's mixed her metaphors, but think better of it.

To my surprise he pulls her to him and holds her close for a moment. "We'll be keeping a real close eye on the situation for you. I promise. And we're just a radio-call away." I recognize it; less to do with the fact that he fancies her like crazy, more that big brother instinct coming out, all re-assurance. He does it to the four of us all the time.

It's well-practiced and it works. Her shoulders slump a little. He pushes her back, aims for eye contact. She gives him a wan smile.

"You'll be okay. I promise."

He kisses her, a brotherly peck on the forehead. We'll have to work on that, I guess, but it's a start. He heads out towards his 'bird.

I line up. She views me through narrowed eyes. "Don't even think it, Red."

I grin and pull her into an embrace. "See you again, Doc."

"What _is_ his name?" she whispers in my ear. "Mike or Scott?"

I draw back and wink. "Yes," I tell her.

She steps on my toe. I'm sure it's an accident.

Outside, the three of us fall into step.

Scott adjusts his shades, kicks his flying jacket back over his shoulder. "You did a good job there, kid," he notes matter-of-factly. He's giving nothing away but I know that he means it. He turns back towards his One true love.

Virgil lays a brotherly hand on my shoulder.

"Okay?" In contrast to Scott his voice is oddly sympathetic.

"What?" I ask him.

"Just want to check how you're doing."

Is he worried about my shoulder again? "I'm doing fine."

The brotherly concern stuff is a touch annoying. But he's nice to me – far too nice – all the way into Two and up to the cockpit; if he doesn't quit soon I will have to plan something spectacularly nasty to put our relationship back on its usual footing.

He looks at me oddly as I stow away my rifle case.

_Oh, I see now!_

Scott understands. Virj doesn't. I'm not the team sniper just because I happen to be the best shot. Scott knows, and Dad knows. This day's been a while coming, but it was always going to arrive. Doesn't change a thing.

It's a job. Just a job.

I do mine so people like Stevie and Martin can do theirs.

I'm the same person I was yesterday.

Study the back of his head as he finishes his pre-flight checks.

Every concerned brother has a silver lining, I say.

Slip into my seat, a little gingerly, eye him up sideways. "Yeah. Just fine," I reiterate, just a little too firmly.

The jets fire up underneath us, and she lifts tortuously, groaning under her own weight, grumbling at him. Outside another minor sandstorm; strike what's left of the Arctic this time, I guess.

"You want to talk about it, you know," he shrugs awkwardly, "you just have to say."

Keep tone just a little too bland. "Talk about what?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "You know…"

Stare straight ahead, not meeting his eye. "I'm good, y'know." Nod a little as though trying to convince myself. Straighten up. "I guess I just need a little time. To clear my head."

He nods knowingly.

Nod back just as knowingly. "Maybe tomorrow I'll head out to sea awhile, get in a little fishing. Y'know…time to think…"

"Good idea," he says approvingly. "I guess you'll want to be alone?"

Allow very fleeting – almost imperceptible - look of distress to cross face.

"Sure," said with a distinct lack of certainty.

"…because, you know, if you wanted someone around…you know, I guess I could…"

"Yeah? Really? You'd do that? I know how you hate those early morning starts."

"_Early_?"

"Best time for fishing, big fella."

"Yeah, well," he's just the tiniest little bit pained at the thought. "I guess…just this once…maybe…"

"Oh, man. You're a real pal, anyone ever told you that?"

A small, slow smile creeps across his face.

Nice to see the old boy happy.

Lean back and shut my eyes, content enough. Been trying to figure out how to wangle this for weeks and weeks. Scott bet me a twenty I couldn't get the big fella out of bed before seven of his own volition.

But a moment later I open them again with a jolt and turn my head to look out of the window. The image of the flash of brilliant white teeth against a handsome dark face is still just a little too vivid for now, and somewhere there's just the faintest aroma of snake stew…

…


End file.
